Dark Waters
by purplediamond7
Summary: Dark oneshots about various PotC character. Lots of angst! Please r&r!
1. Nightmare Memories

**Dark Waters**

Disclaimer: The great and powerful Mouse has spoken. (It owns Pirates of the Caribbean)

**Nightmare Memories**

**A/N: Well, welcome to my series of morbid oneshots! Yes, they're all going to be filled with angst and sadness. **

**This is dedicated to the one and only mypiratecat, who inspired me, with all her wonderful oneshots, to write this. **

People often wondered why he drank. They thought he liked the taste, he supposed. It wasn't really true. He drank to drown out the pain. Living was always pain, but for Captain Jack Sparrow, it was worse than most others. The memories he had to live with tortured him too often.

Especially at night. Too often he had tasted the exquisite poison of the night. The blackness stirred his memory like nothing else. The pain always came rushing back at night. That was why he drank so much then. It was much better to feel the gentle burning of rum and the wake up with a headache the next day, than to live the memories.

He grew to enjoy this feeling, as the warmth of rum drowned his consciousness, the feeling that he was avoiding thinking of something, he couldn't exactly remember what, and didn't want to look closer.

The worst times were when he awoke in the middle of the night, his mind clear of alcohol, and everything came flooding back.

It was one such night, when he awoke a little past midnight. His head throbbed, but he ignored it. The darkness was more pressing. It seemed to close in around him, impenetrable, black, like the sea under clouds. He almost found it hard to breathe. He realized that his head wasn't the only thing that hurt, the brand on his wrist burned with memory. He winced. Not his worst, though.

He fell into the semi-conscious state between sleep and wakefulness, drifting between dream and reality. And he was on the island again, that first time. His memory presented him with disconnected, horrific images and feelings. The cold against his wrist, the wet pistol lying in the sand, the blood…

_Oh, no! God, no! Anything but that…_

He knew he was dreaming, yet he was powerless to wake. He struggled against the dream, but it stayed.

_He was sitting aimlessly on the sand. How strange that he couldn't feel anything. Only the physical things, the things that weren't important. He could feel with perfect clarity the enchanted warmth of the sand, the rough feel of it; he could hear the roar of each wave as it broke upon the shore and the hiss as it retreated from the sand, leaving it damp; he could feel how wet and clinging his hair was; how hot the sun beat upon his back… But he didn't feel any pain. He wondered why. Surely he should feel something. Well, he did feel one thing. The loss of will to live. It was one of those moments, when life seems worthless, not worth the pain of living. One of the moments when life seems an easy thing to throw away. What was the point?_

_Suddenly, he felt the hilt of the knife tucked into his sash. What _was_ the point, after all? There was no point, of course. He took the knife out and set the blade against his wrist. He looked over at his pistol, but realized that the idea was pointless, the powder was too wet to shoot. He could feel the cold of the steel against the sensitive skin on the underside of his wrist. It was so easy. So quick. He saw, very faintly, the blue veins beneath the skin, pulsing with blood, with life. Hypnotizing and tantalizing at the same time. How easy to just… slip away._

_He brought the blade down and slashed his arm, wrist to elbow. The blood flooded, but again, there was no pain. It was so strange. He could feel the hot blood against his skin, flowing down into the sand, but no pain._

_Without any warning, it caught up with him, and engulfed him like a wave. The pain in his arm and in his heart hit him at the exact same time, and he screamed. It was a deserted island, after all. There was no one to hear. And so he cried out in agony, even as the wave retreated, taking most of the pain with it._

_He stared at his arm, wondering why he had done it. He couldn't understand it now. What had prompted him to commit the greatest sin, and try to take his own life? And he was tearing his shirt into shreds, binding his arm, until it stopped bleeding. The desire to live was back, because he had a purpose now. Revenge, revenge, revenge…_

Finally, he struggled free of the nightmare. Why did he have to live that moment over and over again? Wasn't once enough? Would it haunt for the rest of his life?

Rum. Yes, he needed the soothing warmth of rum, the gentle ebbing away of consciousness to soothe the pain. He had to stop thinking about it.

He got out of bed, and went below to get the rum.

**Please review! If you review, Jack will feel better... and so will I!**


	2. Just One More Day

**Dark Waters**

Disclaimer: Of course I own Pirates of the Caribbean! Disney? What are you talking about?

**Just One More Day**

"You must pay the penalty of growing up..."

-Anne of the Island, by L.M. Montogomery

"It is only the gay and innocent and heartless who can fly."

-Peter Pan, by J.M. Barrie

The light of the dying campfire glowed on Elizabeth's skin, making it look bronzed, almost as dark as Jack's. She looked over at him. He was blissfully asleep, his black hair scattered on the ground, a satisfied smile on his lips. She turned away with a little smile of her own, but hers was wistful. If anyone had told her a week ago that she would be trapped on a deserted island with the infamous Captain Jack Sparrow, she would have laughed. And yet here she was.

She had grown up in these past few days. Everything had changed to fast; she had become a woman too fast. Fate had caught her up and swept her along, taking her away from all things familiar. When she had fallen off the parapet of the fort, life had turned up-side-down. She supposed that if she had not worn that wretched corset, none of this would have happened. She would be safe at home, with the problem of Norrington's proposal, which now seemed so meaningless.

So many things had happened to her, rescued by a pirate, kidnapped by another band of pirates, nearly sacrificed, rescued, kidnapped again, and now marooned. They had all changed her, but what changed her most was love. She had found love. The second the _Interceptor_ blew apart into a million pieces, she knew, suddenly and surely that she loved Will. And it was in that moment that she had become a woman. Yes, she had lost her girlhood somewhere in the blue waters of the Caribbean Sea.

Many times, late at night, she had dreamed of adventures, snuggling between warm blankets. She imagined falling in love with some desperately handsome pirate and sailing off with him forever. How foolish it all seemed now. She had never supposed that in her adventures, she would find love in the form of the blacksmith apprentice. She had never suspected before that Will loved her. Men and love had been just a game. Men were just someone to flirt with, not love. She had never had any very clear idea of what love would be like, and she didn't think much about it. It seemed romantic enough to think that she would fall in love.

She sighed and let her head fall wearily into the sand. She longed to go back to that other life, the life that was destroyed for her when she had fallen into the water and set in motion a chain of events that she was powerless to stop. The chain that was still going on. She had never really cared much for that life, but now that it was gone, it suddenly seemed unimaginably sweet.

She noticed things about her previous life that had never really thought about before. She remembered leaning on the mantelpiece, looking up at a painting of a ship that hung above it. That was where most of her imaginary adventures happened. She imagined the swell of waves beneath her feet, without having felt it for so many years; she had almost forgotten what it felt like. She imagined glorious swordfights, climbing the rigging, taking the wheel in her hands, passionate kisses…

The thing she most wanted to return to, was not knowing what it all felt like. She had imagined adventures to be very grand, and now she was in the middle of one, all she wanted was to go home. Even love was not what she had thought. The glamour of the unknown had been lifted, and life seemed bare and not half as wonderful.

Elizabeth knew that, even if, by some miracle, she returned to Port Royal, nothing would ever be the same again. Everything seemed bitter, bitter. It was the bitterness of thwarted dreams. She felt cheated and lonely. She closed her eyes and prayed in her heart, begged God for one more day, just one more day when she was happy and innocent and free. How she would savour it, every moment. Just one more day. Just one more day.

But she knew that everything had changed forever, because she had looked at the world with the eyes of a woman, and now, there was no going back.

**Please review! I'll give you imaginary rum!**


	3. Punishment of the Gods

**Dark Waters**

Disclaimer: No, I don't own a thing...

**Punishment of the Gods**

**A/N: Sorry I haven't updated for a while, I was waiting to be inspired, and today the inspiration arrived! I watched a movie called "The Petrified Forest" (thanks mypiratecat!) and it was so wonderful that I was instantly inspired to write something! It has nothing to do with this, but it was inspiration itself!**

It was the gold. The bright, wicked, treacherous light. It had driven many men mad with desire for it. And there was so much of it. Especially that chest. The stone chest whose yawning mouth revealed it to be brimming with glittering coins, winking promise.

When they saw it, they went mad. Those gold disks looked so infinitely tempting, so enticing. It was there, before them, just for them. Who had said that money couldn't buy everything in the world? It could. At that moment, it could buy everything, and more.

They spent it. Spent it all. Every bit of it. And when it was gone, they wondered how it could have gone so quickly. Where was it? It had faded, taking it's promise with it.

It was then that Barbossa realized that he was dead. His heart no longer beat in his chest, the wind rushed by, but he didn't feel it. He might as well have been dead and buried, the breeze brushing past him carelessly. The spray of the sea flew glittering, but not for him. Not for him also was the warmth of sun or the taste of apples.

He was denied everything. He knew now how cruel the gods were, or was it just one God? They could take everything, and more beyond. No, gold could not buy anything, really. It didn't mean a thing. It was life itself that meant everything.

Barbossa spent many a bitter day cursing himself for the mutiny. No one who is alive could possibly imagine being dead, and yet still alive. Not among a living, not among the dead, trapped in between. Many times, Barbossa wished for something, anything to indicate that he was still alive.

But the only indication was the hunger and thirst. They were omnipresent. The hunger drove him mad, and every time he touched food he did not taste it, but it seemed that the flavor hovered just beyond him, out of reach. Every time he drank rum, it brought no relief. He was always dying, yet never dead.

He even craved the simplest things. He longed to run his hand over the side of the _Pearl_ and feel the rough wood, longed to feel the cool waters of the sea, longed to feel air filling his lungs again. He longed for it all, until it became an almost physical pain. But not quite. No, never actual pain.

Barbossa even longed for pain. Whenever an enemy's sword stabbed through him, he wished he could feel the cold metal tearing his flesh, wished he could feel the blood rushing out of the wound.

Times without number, he closed his eyes and tried to remember what it all felt like. The countless tiny things that had seemed so unimportant before. The fresh coolness of the water, the caresses of the wind, the swaying of the deck under him… And every time it seemed that he could almost feel it, that it was hovering just there before him, mocking and unreachable.

He knew the torment of doomed Tantalus (1), tortured by the gods in Hades. Admittedly, Barbossa reflected, they were different gods. But what did it matter, anyways? Maybe the gods were all the same, their punishments were.

He would have given anything never have mutinied, never to have seen that chest, never to have taken the coins. But it was too late for regrets.

**(1) Tantalus is a person in a Greek legend who did something (I don't remember what) and the gods punished him by making him stand in a pool of water with grapes growing above his head, always horribly tormented by hunger and thirst. But every time he reached for the grapes, they were just out of his reach, and every time he stooped down for the water, it drained away. If someone knows what Tantalus did, please tell me, because right now, I'm sure he stole cursed gold from the stone chest of Cortez. Okay, I'm just kidding, but please tell me!**

**Please review! I'll give you imaginary rum!**


	4. Poison Lips

**Dark Waters**

Disclaimer: If I owned Pirates of the Caribbean, it would either be insanely cheerful (like some of my other stories) or horribly sad (like this one)

**Poisoned Lips**

**A/N: PLEASE READ!!! It might not be quite clear in the story, but it is happening during the journey to World's End, on the ship. The beginning is either a flashback or a dream. I didn't want to clearly define the line between reality and dream, so I didn't italicize the dreams and flashbacks.**

"I'm not sorry."

The words were poison. They filled her whole being with the bitter poison of a guilty lie. She turned and ran. Because she was afraid, scared of what she had done, what she had become. She ran from his dark, mocking eyes, from his mouth twisted in taunting scorn…

Often she awoke in the night, crying. Always, she woke from the same dream. His lips, hot, insistent, strong on hers. The cold of the chain against her hand, contrasting chillingly with the fevered heat of his mouth. His kiss, so urgent, so brutal. The last kiss. The kiss of death. And always, in her dream, there was poison on her lips, poison that flooded both their bodies.

She would wake in tears, aching to say the words that were too late. "I'm sorry, Jack." She sobbed them, screamed them into the night, muffled by the blankets.

Daylight brought no relief. Guilt was within her, the deadly poison on her lips. It ate her from the inside and the few hours of sleep granted to her were an endless repetition of the same thing. His dark lips, sinful, corrupt. Yet it was her who had killed him in the end. There had been no lust in their kiss, just the downward spiral of death. He had known.

She closed her eyes, trying to hide from the world. Trying to run away from the memories. She wanted to escape the recollection of his black eyes, the shadow of the smirk across his face, his lips…

But her guilt spun her thoughts back to the same thing, endlessly. She found herself reliving every detail, feeling it all again. Meeting his lips softly at first, then with growing fierceness, pushing backwards, feeling his mouth dance on hers, his rough lips crushing hers. She could feel again his back hitting the mast, pulling away, their lips still brushing as the shackle closed with the dull clang of fate slamming a down shut forever. No way out now, her choice was made. But if she could only have said it… "I'm sorry, Jack."

She often crept out onto the deck at night. She stood by the mast of their ship, running her fingers over the rough wood. Was it here that she had killed Jack, or was somewhere else? Were these the shackles that had chained him, or was that on another ship? Was it on this deck that their lips had met in the kiss of sin? Were they waiting for her in the boats? Was that Jack's lips brushing against hers, or a breath of warm air? Was Jack there, or was that a fleeting shadow? Who was she, anyway? Well-bred lady and governor's daughter, or pirate, murderess, and traitor? She surely couldn't be both.

Blind in the darkness of the night, she clung to the words throbbing within her, as if they were an anchor. "I'm sorry, Jack." She clung to them, knowing that if she let go, she would float away, into the blackness, into the unknown, and be lost forever, wandering for eternity over the waters of a sea that had no end and no beginning.

"I'm sorry, Jack."

**Please review! I love you all!**


	5. Lies

**Dark Waters**

Disclaimer: I saw this disclaimer somewhere, and I thought it was hilarious. It wasn't a PotC story, but just so guys know, I didn't make this disclaimer up. I don't even own the disclaimer! Here goes:

Solve this equation using the transitive property:

Disney is the owner of Pirates of the Caribbean

Purplediamond is not Disney

Solution: Purplediamond is not the owner of Pirates of the Caribbean

Okay, now back to being serious.

**Lies**

**"… 'take the easy way'. I wonder who invented that little phrase. It certainly wasn't a woman."**

**-Waterloo Bridge (1940)**

The truth of it was that Giselle hated lies. She hated them, and yet her whole life was one enormous lie. A lie that stood in her path like a tiger, threatening to swallow the truth, to destroy it forever.

Sometimes, she couldn't realize that this was _her_, not some other woman, passing herself in the street and thinking, scornfully, "What woman would stoop so low?" Desperately, she wanted to be that other woman, the honest one, who looked down at the dyed-haired whore with contempt.

When Giselle got ready for the day's work, at about three in the afternoon, she liked to stand before the mirror, and look long and hard at her reflection in her plain dressing gown, and tell herself "This is me. This is the real me." Then, sighing, she would put on her dress, lacing the corset so tightly she almost couldn't breathe. She would take the curl rags out of her hair and arrange it carefully on her head, hiding the half and inch or so of brown hair, struggling free of the dye, just as she always hid the truth so carefully from the eyes of the world. She would paint her face, hiding the too-dark shade of her skin, brushing rouge over her cheeks, staining her lips, putting on kohl… It was endless, the disguises, the filthy deceptions.

She longed for a simple life, the feel of rough homespun under her hands instead of the slick smoothness of satin; the whisper of cotton instead of the pompous rustle of crinoline; her breath coming unhindered, instead of trapped in her in her whalebone corset stays… Giselle wanted to see her hair grow gray with the years, not hidden by dye, wanted to see lines of care and love forming around her eyes and mouth, not concealed by paint, wanted to see happy children clamoring around her. She longed for it all until she felt sick, until her world spun with the monstrous lie that she was forced to live.

Giselle liked to believe that she really wasn't what she had become. She liked to believe that there was something inside her that remained untouched by all the men who used her body. She liked to believe that there was a core of goodness beneath all her wickedness, a soul that would go on when her body was old and buried. There was no job like hers to find out how little her body really mattered. It was just a shell, a bright, glittering shell. No one had ever bothered to look past the gaudy exterior of it to the life within. Giselle believed, or tried to believe, that when the shell withered away, the pure, true part of her would remain. She liked to think that way because that was the only thing that made life bearable, the only thing that made her go out every evening with her head held high, thinking, repeating endlessly, "They can't reach me. They can't touch me."

She had never grudged them her body; they could do as they pleased. They were just stupid men who didn't know any better, who would never understand. But she did grudge them her life, the life that they repressed. The life that she could have lived happily… somewhere. At another time, in another place… it could all have been so different… She could have been honest, there would have been no need for lies.

**Please review!**


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